Hitched
by johnsarmylady
Summary: Retired now, and living in the country, Sherlock has a nasty experience when John doesn't seem to be John anymore, and a strange sofa appears in the garden near his hives... Rated T for hints of a relationship...


**Now depending on how you look at it, the fact that this came to me as I was doing the washing up could be the best reason ever for me never to put my hands in soapy water again!  
Many thanks to MapleleafCameo for reading it through for me.  
Disclaimer: Nope, still own nothing!**

"John!"

The voice came from nowhere, yelling urgently.

"John wake up."

Dark blue eyes fluttered open, squinting against the light, confused.

"John?"

It seemed the voice belonged to a tall, distinguished looking man in his mid-fifties, with piercing blue-green eyes that were currently peering down beneath frowning brows.

"Why are you wearing those ridiculous clothes? Where did those awful pyjamas come from? And I don't remember seeing that dressing gown before." There was a distinct huffiness in the voice.

Looking around the blue eyes took in everything about the room – yes, it was definitely his living room, he remembered it clearly. And on the table was his favourite large tea cup, breakfast wasn't the same without tea in that cup. The only thing that was out of place was the owner of that resonant voice.

"Who's John?" He decided that, first things first, he wanted to know why this man was calling him names.

His question however, just caused the frown to deepen, and long slender fingers reached forward in an attempt to take his temperature, but the blue eyed man flinched and tried to move back. Unfortunately that course of action was hindered by the fact that he was lying on a sofa, his head resting on a cushion, his back pressed against the back of the furniture.

"What?" he squawked.

"John, are you unwell?" there was an edge of panic in the voice now. "What has happened to you?"

"I'm not John, I'm….."

"Of course you're John! Who else could you be?" whirling away, the tall man paced up and down, running his fingers through curly salt-and-pepper hair and muttering to himself.

With a sigh, blue eyes lowered to look at his attire. Grey t-shirt, red striped pyjama trousers and green towelling dressing gown – nothing unusual there, he'd been wearing these – or something identical – since….

Hang on! Wasn't he promised he wouldn't have to come back here while there was so much unexplored territory for him to see? He sat up and looked around. Yes! He was definitely back in his living room – but he shouldn't be.

Sitting up had made his head spin, and caused a slow droning voice inside to declare _'Now I've got a headache!'_

Resting his elbows on his thighs he groaned, and let his head sink into his hands, watching the lanky stranger through his lashes.

"No, no, no! This isn't right!"

The man seemed to repeat this over and over, and in between each repetition he turned to stare at the blue eyed man on the sofa, occasionally even striding up to him to stare into his eyes.

~O~

It must have been the third time he had looked into John's eyes but seen no recognition there. Sherlock was beginning to panic. In all the years they had been together this had always been John's area. He didn't understand illness the way his doctor did – death yes, illness no – and he was at a loss as to how he should help his friend.

And all the time John just watched him.

Finally he could stand it no longer. Striding towards the sofa Sherlock lifted John bodily from his seat.

"John, you need to see a doctor – now don't argue. I don't believe in doctors treating themselves, it always ends badly."

"I'm not…"

"Enough!" Sherlock roared. "Listen to yourself John, you don't even know who you are. Have you banged your head?"

"But…"

"No, wait here, I'll get you some clothes and while you dress I'll call a cab." And without giving his companion a chance to speak he whisked away.

As he listened to the receding footsteps, the blue-eyed man edged slowly towards the kitchen door and then, once he was through it, he raced out into the garden.

Up in the bedroom, Sherlock stopped dead and stared.

"Like what you see?" John grinned, dropping his towel and reaching out to pick up his boxers.

"What….? How….?"

"Sherlock?" John stepped up and peered a little short-sightedly at his partner of twenty years. "Okay?"

Seeing the recognition in the navy blue eyes, Sherlock looked back over his shoulder.

"John, come with me."

He grabbed the older man's hand and pulled him, naked and still clutching his boxers, back down the stairs to the living room.

It was empty.

"But you were…."

John pulled Sherlock into a hug.

"What? Did you doze off in the chair again…..?"

~O~

The blue eyed man walked up to a red and white sofa with gold trim that looked suspiciously out of place in the garden amongst the bee hives.

"I warned you, Zaphod, what would happen if you insisted on bringing me home and trying to leave me here…."


End file.
